A world happens in a week. At least in one of my weeks. In a week’s time, I might teach school; help with a garage sale; plan curriculum; help with cleaning jobs; wash the dishes; write lengthy emails; bake cookies; visit friends; attend church; dream about the future; take a sister out for supper; begin
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A Guest Post by Lilian Stotzfus: Said the ant to the great tree, “I have a question for thee.” The tree stood and waited, and the ant continued. “Are you a he, or are you a she?” Pine needles whispered in the breeze. “I am both a he and a she,” said the tree. “What
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How we used to do it: My mom always bought our bread when I was young, usually white (the kind that has all the nutrients bleached out), the cheapest in the aisle. I felt sorry for the children who came to school with homemade bread sandwiches. Boughten bread, as we called it, was so much
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Or rather, don’t. Sliced and lying on a paper plate waiting to be deep fat fried, a pale squishy tan color with red dots here and there where the blood vessels were, I find them decidedly unappetizing. Jeffrey brought a couple of them home from North Star Bison on Sunday and sliced them up, grimacing.
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I am young, not yet school age, sitting on a hay bale in the center aisle of the barn while Dad tells me a story. From my vantage point, I see only the back ends of the cows–their broad dusty sides and and manure-flecked tails, their constant shifting and switching while Dad moves in and
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